


Out of Debt

by idyll



Category: Burn Notice, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-26
Updated: 2007-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idyll/pseuds/idyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael's not sure which category John Sheppard falls into, which is nothing new. Sheppard's an expert at not living up to anyone's idea of him. It's his special talent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Debt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladycat777 (Ladycat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/gifts).



Michael's opinion on old friends showing up on his doorstep is mixed. Many of them want to _kill_ him, so that's bad. Some of them are being blackmailed by the government to rat on him, which is annoying. Some want to start their turbulent affair all over again, and that leads to more than a few conflicts between his body and mind. Still others are _related_ to him, which is an entirely different problem altogether.

Michael's not sure which category John Sheppard falls into, which is nothing new. Sheppard's an expert at not living up to anyone's idea of him. It's his special talent.

"Sheppard," he says, wary and cautious, as he approaches the steps up to his door.

Sheppard's sitting on the third one up, slumped against the railing. His face is gray and he has a hand clamped hard over the top of his thigh. That in and of itself is a worry. What makes Michael's body tense is the fact that Sheppard is dressed for an op: black t-shirt, tac vest, black and gray BDU bottoms, boots and--most disturbingly--a thigh holster.

When Michael's five feet away, Sheppard lifts his head and sketches a fleeting smile, and drawls, "Michael."

His tone holds more irony than the situation warrants. It's something Michael notes and puts away for later consideration. "What are you doing here?"

In answer, Sheppard lifts his hand from his thigh. There's a jagged tear in his BDUs, and a messy hole in his leg. Even as Michael watches, more blood seeps out of it. Sheppard presses his hand down on it again and uses his free hand to grab the railing and pull himself to his feet. He's still holding his thigh so he's bent awkwardly.

He stares at Michael without blinking. "Remember that time I saved your life? Consider this repayment."

Of course Michael remembers. There isn't much he doesn't remember about the two month long op he and Sheppard were both on in Afghanistan. And really, if he was going to forget any of it? It wouldn't be the part where Sheppard pulled him from the rubble of a building and carried him five miles to their exit point.

Michael narrows his eyes behind his sunglasses. "Terms?"

Sheppard twists his lips in disgust. "I'm bleeding out here, you prick."

"Terms."

Sheppard's glare is poisonous. "Fine. _Terms._ Patch up my leg. Give me clothes, food and shelter for the next five days. Call us even." His lips twist into an unpleasant smile. "Does that suit you?"

Michael nods. "Acceptable." He goes to the steps, curls an arm around Sheppard's back, and starts hauling him up the steps. Sheppard smells like sweat and bitter adrenaline and cordite. He spits curses at Michael and bleeds all over his lightweight suit pants and Michael smiles and jerks him up the last two steps. "Welcome to Miami, Shep."

*

Sheppard, for all that he refuses to drop even a hint about what sort of trouble he's in, is actually one of the better houseguests Michael's had. After Michael deals with the mess on his thigh, which was one hell of a very obviously self-inflicted wound, Sheppard faceplants on the bed and doesn't move for thirty hours.

Michael goes though his uniform and vest but finds nothing to explain what the hell is going on. He remembers Sheppard as having a problem with taking orders he didn't like, but never pegged him as a deserter.

In the meantime, Michael finishes up the tail end of a case involving a kidnapped kid, for which he'll receive a whopping five grand that he'll have to share with Sam and Fi.

When he leaves, he rigs the shotgun to his door and shakes Sheppard awake long enough to tell him where the emergency exit is. Sheppard groggily asks for his gun. Michael gives it to him and then watches as he falls asleep while his hands are still checking the weapon over.

Christ. Michael knows habits like those, and they only sink in when someone's been in the thick of it for a long, long while.

*

When Michael gets back Sheppard is just coming out of the shower. There's saran wrap from Michael's kitchen around the gauze on his thigh, a towel around his hips, and a gun in his hand. The lattermost is cocked and aimed at Michael's head in an impressively short amount of time. Sheppard's reflexes have gotten _better_ apparently.

Michael holds his hands at his sides and makes a face. "Nice way to say thank you, Shep."

Sheppard's already lowered the weapon and put the safety on. "Sorry. And don't call me Shep. I haven't gone by that for years."

Michael leads him into the main room and points at the bed. "Come on, I'll take another look at your leg."

Sheppard shakes his head and goes right for the clothing Michael left hanging over the back of a chair. "I already did. It's fine."

When he lifts the towel and leans down to unravel the saran wrap, Michael stares. Sheppard's just as lean and tight as Michael remembers from dozens of hot dry days and cold sandy nights in Afghanistan. Their joint op was so classified that only five people in the government knew about it, and it unfolded so slowly and delicately that most of the two-month long assignment was spent waiting for the groundwork to lay itself.

Which left them plenty of time to kill in a small room furnished only with a mattress.

Things had happened. And happened some more. And kept on happening.

Sheppard glances up and their gazes lock. He freezes briefly, and then straightens up, saran wrap falling from his lax hand. The other hand is clutching at his towel, which has slid far enough down his hips that Michael can see hair peeking over the edge.

Sheppard licks his lips and Michael's breath catches in his throat. The moment feels wrought, like something, anything is about to happen, and Michael's heart is slamming against his rib cage and he can _see_ Sheppard's eyes dilate.

Which, of course, is when Sam knocks on the door. Sheppard startles, drops into a thoughtless crouch, and then falls to the side clutching his thigh with one hand. The other hand is pointing the gun at the door.

Michael's jaw grinds. One of these days, he's going to let Fi shoot Sam.

*

It takes most of the night to help Sam move out of his latest lady friend's house and into a dive motel.

"I already have a guest," Michael says when Sam asks to stay with him.

Sam pushes it, because he's nothing if not utterly shameless. "What about when he leaves? Come on, Michael, be a pal!"

Michael slips his sunglasses on. "We'll see."

Sam glares at him because he knows that what Michael actually means is: No. Unless I really need something from you when the time comes. Which I probably won't.

It's only through years of training that Michael doesn't fall asleep behind the wheel of the Charger on the way back to his place. He's exhausted and this is the second sunrise he's seen in as many days. He doesn't have the energy to go in the unofficial back door into his apartment, so he knocks on the door and calls out to Sheppard to dismantle the booby trap. Sheppard does so quickly and Michael stumbles inside.

"You look like shit," Sheppard comments, then nudges Michael away from a wall he's about to walk into.

Michael starts stripping his suit off. He mumbles at Sheppard as he does so. "Set the shotgun up again. Keep your gun around. Remember the exit."

"Yeah, yeah, go to sleep."

Michael executes his own faceplant onto to the bed and lands on a pillow that smells like Sheppard. Michael hadn't consciously remembered the smell, couldn't have described it if he tried, but now that he's near it again he knows it. Spice, salt, and ocean. That's Sheppard even when he's in the middle of a desert.

Michael falls asleep almost instantly and his dreams are vivid and lurid, filled with details he'd never known well enough to forget.

*

The need to piss wakes Michael sixteen hours later. He showers and gets dressed since he's awake, and starts feeling human once again.

Sheppard's upstairs at Michael's laptop, dressed in a set of Michael's casual clothes: dark green khakis and a white polo. Sheppard looks vaguely uncomfortable and Michael remembers that he prefers loose jeans and t-shirts. His hair is an artless mess of cowlicks, but Michael saw the large dent in his styling gel and knows that it's only _seemingly_ artless.

"I have to ask," Sheppard says. "What's with the suits? I mean, don't you think it's a little..._Miami Vice_?"

Michael ignores his snark. "What are you doing?"

Sheppard's face blanks and he taps several keys before getting up. "Checking on a situation and arranging for a ride. I'll be out of your hair the day after tomorrow."

"Everything okay?" Michael asks obliquely.

Sheppard tilts his head to the side and seems to think about it, then nods slowly. "Yeah. It was sorted out in my 'absence'. Which is what I was hoping would happen."

Michael's been badgered for information lately by Sam, his mother, Fi, and even the FBI. He knows how annoying it is. He nods and doesn't push for anything else.

Sheppard gets to his feet and stretches, arms over his head and fingers locked together. The motion pulls his shirt up, revealing a strip of bare skin. Michael forgets about his plan to suggest they get something to eat. Instead he steps around the table between them. Sheppard watches him idly and seems in no hurry to lower his arms even though he's done stretching.

Michael invades his space until their chests would press together if either of them were to take a deep breath. He slides a hand down Sheppard's side, until he comes to the strip of bare skin, then tucks his hand under the hem of his shirt and just rests it there on Sheppard's skin.

Sheppard sucks in a breath and his eyes flutter close briefly. "Jesus," he whispers. He lowers his arms slowly and his hands cautiously come to rest on Michael's waist. Sheppard lifts a brow, a silent question that Michael answers just as silently with a sharp nod.

Sheppard's fingers dig in and pull him so close that they have to tilt their heads so that they don't bash their faces together. For a moment they don't move. They breathe harshly against one another's cheeks, letting the anticipation build, and then Michael breaks and turns his face in search of Sheppard's mouth.

The kiss is searing and ferocious, with shades of desperation and need. It's been too long since Michael's had sex _just_ because he wanted to, which accounts for it on his end. He's not sure what's bringing it out in Sheppard, but he can guess: Sheppard likes men as much as he likes women, and being in the military isn't always conducive to getting all your needs met.

They kiss, and below their waists they push against each other, hardening cocks trapped behind lightweight summer-thin material, trying for and missing that perfect point of contact that would give them both what they need. They groan into each other's mouths, frustrated and impatient, and Michael shoves one leg between Sheppard's, careful to make sure his wounded thigh is on the outside, and, yes, _there_. That's it, just like that, a thigh for each of them to ride, to thrust against.

Sheppard grabs Michael's ass with both hands and they pull and push and grind and shove, and they can't kiss through this, they can't, so they're just breathing into each other's mouths, heavy and gasping. Michael pulls away when his vision starts to gray out and drops his head to Sheppard's shoulder.

"_God_." He bites the top of Sheppard's shoulder and reaches between them, fumbling for catches and zippers, until he's pulled out both their cocks. Sheppard shoves his hands away and takes them both in one of his own large hands, jacking them fast and frantic, using their precome to ease the way and make the friction good instead of painful.

"Yeah, yeah, come on," Sheppard chants, faint and breathless. Michael groans against the clothing-covered muscle he's dug his teeth into and feels Sheppard's cock swell suddenly.

Sheppard comes all over his own hand and all over Michael's cock. He doesn't stop jacking Michael, and Michael doesn't even know which way is up anymore, because it feels so damn good that he can't think. He can only push through the tight tunnel of Sheppard's hand, slick with Sheppard's warm come, and let the pleasure pull his own orgasm from him until he's shaking and leaning all of his weight against Sheppard.

*

After dinner, they fall into bed and Michael holds Sheppard down and fucks him as slow as he can while Sheppard shakes and jerks and gasps for more under him. They fall asleep and Michael wakes up when Sheppard rolls him over and starts rimming him. Sheppard's hands are hard as he holds Michael in place and eats him out for what seems like hours, until Michael doesn't have energy to move or a voice to cry out with, and only then does Sheppard make him come.

For the next two and a half days they only leave the bed to use the bathroom and to answer the door to collect whatever food they've ordered in. It takes a hell of a lot to keep Fi and Sam away, but by some miracle Michael manages it. And by "miracle" he means that he owes his mother several favors, but he's promised himself he doesn't have to think about that any time soon.

*

In the afternoon on the third day Sheppard goes for a shower and comes back out clothed. His expression is regretful but firm, and Michael nods and takes his place in the bathroom.

When he comes out, fully dressed, he finds that Sheppard's changed the sheets and tossed all the windows open to air the place out. The shotgun booby trap has been dismantled and when Michael looks a question at Sheppard he points upstairs.

They finish leftovers from the night before and Michael finally asks a question he's been holding since Sheppard first showed up. "How did you know where to find me?"

Sheppard doesn't look away, he's too good for that, but his eyes get vague and dissembling. "Michael--"

"Do you know who Burned me?" Michael demands to know.

Sheppard just looks at him. Right before Michael's about to reach for a weapon, Sheppard sighs wearily and replies, his tone colored with resignation. "I don't know anything you can't find out on your own."

Michael feels a muscle in his jaw jerk and twitch. "That's not good enough, John."

Sheppard actually looks apologetic. "It's all I can give you."

Michael leaves him downstairs and goes up to clean the shotgun and oil the rigging for the trap.

When someone knocks on the door two hours later, he's still upstairs, sitting on the floor with his back against a wall and his legs stretched out in front of him. Sheppard answers the door before Michael gets down there. There is a contingent of Air Force and Marine personnel lining Michael's steps. Sheppard asks them to hold on, but two of the officers, both Air Force Majors, step up. "Sir, we have to--"

Sheppard cuts them off by waving them inside. He gestures at them to stay by the door and they take up position at parade rest.

Michael raises a brow; apparently Sheppard got a promotion. Above the zone, in fact.

Sheppard ignores them and turns to Michael. "So, you know, thanks."

Michael shrugs. "Well, I've got one less debt hanging over me, so it was worth it."

Sheppard's face creases with irritation and when he speaks his voice is a harsh whisper. "This is how we're leaving it? With you pissed at me for something I'll be court-martialed for telling you?"

Michael drops his eyes at the censure because it's deserved. He knows what being in the Air Force--what _flying_\--means to Sheppard. Asking him to jeopardize that isn't fair, especially because if their positions were reversed Michael wouldn't do it.

"You're welcome, John," Michael says and looks up again. Sheppard relaxes and then shifts. "You better go before they decide to storm the place." He smiles and waves a hand at Sheppard's outfit, which is another of Michael's: a pair of khakis and a fitted, long-sleeved shirt. He'd also managed to scrounge up a pair of flip-flops along the way. It actually looks good on him. "Keep the clothes. They work for you."

Sheppard smirks and cocks his hip. It's a move that Michael can tell is entirely subconscious and really effective. He clears his throat and nods towards the bag by the door with Sheppard's uniform in it.

"Oh, yeah." Sheppard picks it up, rummages through it, and then nods, satisfied that his uniform is all there. "Okay, so, I should go." He holds out his hand and Michael shakes it. Before Sheppard lets go he tightens his hand around Michael's and tells him, his voice loaded and serious, "Watch your back, Michael."

They unclasp their hands slowly and then Sheppard turns to the door. One of the Majors opens it, and then they both follow Sheppard out. Michael stands there for a moment, wondering if Sheppard meant for his parting words to sound so much like a warning.

.End


End file.
